Death And Regrets Of Regulus Black
by Rasiaa
Summary: "He looked so much like his brother, the one he missed so much, the one who had everything, including friends and a lover who cared and loved him, and the reassurance that no matter what happened, at least it wouldn't end with him on the wrong side of prison bars." ...In a world where all he wished for never came true, all he had left was pride and the knowledge of a dark secret.


He was nothing special- just another one of _them_. He had dark, slightly curly hair that fell to his shoulders, though not by choice. It was vital in his line of work to look least like _him_ as possible. His dark eyes were barely seen in the darkness, but his pale skin made hiding difficult. Hence why he and the others he worked with always wore black- though the white masks were a mystery to him. The masks were beautiful, in a spooky, wrong sort of way. Sort of like his face, with the clear, aristocratic features and a thin frame. He was so much thinner than he had ever been in his whole life, and that was saying something, since he could go days without eating a damn thing as punishment from his mother and father.

He sat hunched over at his desk, the dark robes with a green silk lining pulled tightly around him. He wore gloves on his hands, and there was the faint outline of heavy bandaging on his left forearm. The knife he'd done it with was in his right hand, the blood dripping slowly onto his clean, black shoes. The mask was in his other hand, coated in red blood and wine, cut to shreds. He didn't look like he regretted it.

The black eyes followed the blood as if fell, almost entranced by it. It was his own blood, of course, but he didn't seem to care. After all, what was blood, anyway? Why did matter? He'd seen the red, sticky, hot liquid that fell from the Muggle's veins when they were cut, and he'd seen the same substance fall from Mudbloods and Blood Traitors and even dark creatures. It was the same fluid that was in his veins, and the same that fell from his knife. He knew that now, they were all the same. It was just a matter of weather or not your had the ability to do something, and how you got that ability, and what you chose to do with it. He knew why his brother chose his friends over family. He made the _right choice. _

Footsteps echoed down the hall, but he didn't move. He knew she wouldn't come in his room- she respected his choices, his decisions, the moves he made on the giant chessboard that was life. He chocked back on a sob. His brother made all the right choices, and he'd been disowned, shamed, and spat on by the ones that were supposed to love him no matter what. He was going to backtrack and follow him, now, but he wasn't sure he'd be welcomed. After all, the last time they'd seen each other, the brothers had screamed and hollered and he had called him a freak and a pervert and a curse to the world. That was one thing he regretted.

At last, the blood dried on the knife and didn't fall again. He frowned at it, and was tempted to bring it to his skin again, but decided against it. He'd do it later. After all, if there was any blood leaking onto his robes, his mother would know what he did and she would scream and yell and maybe throw him into the cellar. He'd be killed for sure if she ever found out, because even through he was the pride of the family and the only remaining son, his mother was loyal to his father, and his father was unquestionably loyal to his employer. They'd report him. He'd be tortured, and then killed. No, he couldn't let her see the blood.

He stuffed the knife into the pocket of his robes and stood on shaky legs. The mask fell from his slack grip, and barely made a sound as it hit the floor. He didn't glance at it as he took a deep breath, removing the gloves and placing them on the desk. Then he sat back down, sitting up straight and proper, like he should, and took a quill from the desk drawer. It was his favorite, with the bright peacock feather and the gold-plated tip. It was exactly a foot long, and the blue, green, black, and gold feather didn't bend as other feathers tended to do. He ran his fingers over the smooth tip and pricked his left index finger on the edge of it. He allowed himself a small smile. _Perfect._ The ink was on his desk next to a rough piece of parchment. He opened the inkbottle and dipped the ink-stained tip of the quill into it, then brought the quill to the top of the parchment, and began to write, slowly, the quill making a loud, heavy scratching noise in his ears.

_To The Dark Lord,_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more_.

_R.A.B._

He finished his initials with a flourish- something he did purely out of habit. He suspected that his brother did the same- eleven years of training with Blood Quills to perfect one's handwriting to the satisfaction of their father was something terribly difficult to break.

The note had to dry, but he didn't have time for that. So he drew his wand from his pocket and waved it over the ink, watching as it faded a little into the parchment as it dried. He then folded the note several times and picked up a locket that sat innocently on his lap. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry; made of gold with real emeralds placed into the shape of an "S". It hung from a long gold chain that he was tempted to drop from the way it seemed to burn his skin with grime.

He opened the locket and slid the note inside. The locket closed with a soft _click _when he pushed it shut. He then slid the priceless artifact into his robes and stood again. He moved behind his chair and slid it into place, then organized the papers on his desk. He put the ones his mother expected to see on top, and the ones she didn't into a hidden space underneath the window, in the wall. Satisfied no one would find the papers on horcruxes, he left his room, shutting the door behind him. He let out a small sigh of relief. If everything went to plan, he would never see the Slytherin green or the articles on the Dark Lord ever again. He would never have to wake up to the one picture he had of his brother staring down at him from the ceiling, where his mother wouldn't see it. He would never again sit at that stupid old desk that cost more money than the house down the street. He'd never have to look out his window and wish for a way to escape the hell he lived in every damn day of his life.

If everything went to plan, he would die that night.

Hands at his sides, he straightened up, his shoulders rolling back and his spine clicking into place. He put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, rather quickly, as he walked down the hall one last time. He didn't look up to see the torches of fire burn and cast mocking shadows- as if they knew what he was doing. He didn't pause when the house elves heads' glared down at him from their posts when he made his way down the stairs- down four levels. Down, down, down.

When his foot reached the last step, he hesitated. His world became hazy, and he felt dizzy and nauseous. His heart dropped into his stomach and sat there, creating an unpleasant feeling of anxiety and his pulse quickened. His hands made themselves into fists at his sides, and he began to breathe more slowly, to calm himself down. The reality of what he was about to do set in, and the anxiety and nervous jitters refused to go away.

He stepped down from the step, and the sensation of his racing heart filled his mind, a pounding rhythm that set his blood racing through his veins. He began to feel pins and needles in his palms where his long, sharp nails dug into the soft flesh. He didn't feel it when the wounds on his hands began to slowly ooze blood. Dirty, filthy, impure blood that was no different to anyone else's.

He began to slowly, hesitantly, move forward. To an observer, it might have looked as though he was walking around while he was angry, but to him, he was drowning in guilt, and anger, hatred, sorrow, fear, and so many other emotions he couldn't quite pinpoint. They were all negative, and they all had led him to where he was just then. Walking to his death.

When he reached the edge of the kitchen, he paused. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting to seven with each breath. He didn't calm down entirely, but it was enough to be able to convince his mother that everything was okay. That it wouldn't be the last time he saw her. That he wasn't betraying everything she had made him into, that he had finally seen the world the way his brother always had, and was going to follow him, to the other side of the war.

His heartbeat did not slow down, but he hadn't expected it to. So he just took once last breath and stepped into the kitchen, wiping his bloody hands on the doorframe. He knew she'd find it later, and probably scream, but, as he stared at her, he couldn't bring himself to care. She fit in too well with the darkness that coated the kitchen. The cabinets were a dark black color, and while it was clean, it wasn't comforting. They were all filled with plates, cups and goblets, and other various family heirlooms that his ancestors had collected over the years. Such items also littered the counters, and the filled the pantry and lined the floor. And the pattern went all the way through the house- useless junk that was worth a huge amount of money was all over the place.

It made him feel an overwhelming amount of disgust towards his family. After all, they didn't need the stuff- why not give it away? But he knew his mother would never do such a thing. To have a Mudblood- as anything less than Pure was considered to be one- touch and handle the heirlooms of the family would be shameful.

His mother's dark eyes scanned him from his feet until they finally met his. She smiled, and he shivered. She had a beautiful set of teeth, certainly, but it was the cruelness lurking in her steady, calculating gaze that made it seem to twist and burn. His stomach once again clenched in hatred for the woman he stood before.

She stood, the sickening smile still plastered on her face. The dress she wore was terribly low cut- something to please his father, he was sure. It was black and it laced up in the back with thin, silk ribbon. It went down to her ankles in the back, but was shortened in the front and he had to force himself not to retch at the sight. She had on high heels- also black- that laced up to her knees. The woman walked slowly, as if she knew what a torture it was for him.

"Regulus," she greeted, her voice smooth and silky, his name slipping off her tongue like honey from the hive. He forced himself not to move when her fingers, withered with age with nails like talons, brushed his face in a gentle caress.

"Mother," he replied stiffly. She frowned, a crease forming between her eyebrows. She knew something was wrong, but she didn't know what. She didn't know her son was going to die.

The frown disappeared as quickly as it came and she lowered her hand. Regulus could have collapsed with relief. A week ago he would've done anything for such a display of affection from either of his parents, but now that he knew what they really stood for, he couldn't bear to have either of the adults touch him. His mother turned and walked swiftly back to her seat near the head of the table- the head reserved for his father, no one else. He would've had that seat when his father finally kicked the bucket and died.

When his mother sank into her chair, she leaned forward, her chin resting on her hands as she stared at him. He fought the urge to shrink away from her. Instead he stood straight and stared into her eyes, his gaze as unwavering as hers. She looked away first, and Regulus felt a shiver of satisfaction run through him, making his thin lips quirk upwards at the side.

"Are you doing to sit down, child?" she asked harshly, still not looking at him. She instead looked her nails over, as if it was so much more interesting than her own son and heir. Regulus guessed that she did not like that he had won the staring contest.

He blinked at her, then shrugged inwardly and sat in his usual place directly in front of his mother. "What is it, Mother?" he questioned, his voice as smooth as silk and unwavering, despite the erratic beating of his cold, hard heart.

"Nothing in particular, child," his mother told him, no longer examining her nails. Her eyes bore into his, just as they did before, and she smiled. It was softer that time, but Regulus couldn't see past the way her eyes danced with some unknown emotion. Did she know?

Regulus blinked when he realized what his mother had said. While she took his blink to be a victory where there previously was a failure, Regulus, too, could have danced with joy. This was his chance. She never questioned when his Mark burned, so she would let him go without kicking up a fuss. She would not ponder her son's absence, for lately he had been gone for up to three weeks at a time. For three weeks he would be dead and she'd never even know it. The thought brought him a sick sort of pleasure- he'd laugh from whatever afterlife he'd go to.

He sneered at her. "Well then, I'll be leaving. My Master calls," he told her, standing quickly. She blinked in surprise, and he put one hand over the bandaging on his left forearm. Her eyes flickered towards it, and remained there for several long moments. Regulus squirmed under her gaze, almost dreadfully eager to get away from her.

Finally she nodded and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. He let out an inward sigh of relief and removed his hand from his arm, which was throbbing painfully from the amount of pressure he had applied just moments ago. He moved away from the table, around his chair, and, as he slid past the counter, he placed the note fore his mother in a place he knew she would find it later. He did not look back when he opened the kitchen door and strode out. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, even through the walls, so he picked up his pace and tugged his coat closer, almost tripped over the long fabric. He was tempted to pull up the cowl to hide his face, but he didn't.

When he finally made it to the front door, he glanced back. The portrait of his mother was asleep; thank Merlin. His eyes traveled over the pictures and the statues in the hallway, over the umbrella stand, the stairs, and the house elves heads. He would not miss them, or any of the other things in the house. It wasn't like he was going to live somewhere else, except maybe six feet underground in a wooden box with a marker over his head, reading _coward. _

He blinked, and turned away, looking at his hand that rested on the cool brass doorknob. He knew the brass wasn't the crap people found at some store that sold doorknobs- it was hand crafted. Regulus felt the familiar bile rise up in his throat but he swallowed it down. It wouldn't do to throw up before he could get to where he needed to be. He turned the knob and opened the door.

When he shut the door behind him, he turned around to face the wind. It wasn't a weak wind, but it certainly wasn't the strongest one he'd ever been in, either. The cool air dispelled any nausea and anxiety he had had earlier. The freshness of the night cleared his head and he gained back the confidence he had somehow lost on the stairs. He pulled up the hood and hopped down the steps of his house, ducking his head and staring at the ground, looking up only on occasion as to not run into something as he walked. The street was quiet, and he made his way past every house with only the sound of rushing wind for company. A streetlight flickered and died as he passed it, and he smiled. The darkness would hide him even further.

He slipped around the corner without so much as a swish of his cloak and he picked up his pace. He walked for a long while, his wide strides making the cloak flow away from him every few minutes. The wind didn't exactly help. He again slipped around another corner, trying to escape an annoying clicking sound from behind him. He hoped he wasn't being followed.

He chanced a look behind him, and, seeing nothing but a dark expanse lit occasionally by a dying light from muggle streetlights, turned back around, heart racing. He picked up his pace again, almost running, running, running. He turned a corner into an alley and disapparated, the crack echoing in his ears and through the dark, unforgiving alley.

His feet hit the ground hard. He stumbled over his coat slightly, before righting himself abruptly. Even though he knew for a fact that there was no one around, no one to see and judge him anymore, and never would again, he felt the need to present himself as a Black. The sole Black heir, after his disgraced brother. He wished, not for the first time, that he'd been brave enough to follow all those years ago.

He gulped and took a deep breath. The waves crashed against the rocks behind him, soaking the bottom of his robes and making his feet uncomfortably wet. He opened the dark eyes that he didn't remember closing, and shuddered at the sight of the dark rocky wall in front of him. There were several crevices in the side of the mountain that he stood at the bottom of, all of them very clever places to hide things, but he knew that none of them would contain the horcrux.

Drawing his wand, Regulus took a breath to steady his hand and prepared the cutting spell in his mind. Quickly hissing it out between clenched teeth, the blood welled alarmingly from the palm of his left hand, and Regulus moved swiftly to run it over the wall in front of him.

The rocks fell away with a shuddering sigh and a groan. He stepped into the dark cavern before it fell back into place behind him, closing him into an endless darkness. He shifted, and the swooshing sound of his wet robes echoed back to him, freezing him in place. Dear Merlin, he kept thinking. How the Dark Lord could stand it, he had no idea.

He stood still and listened. There was no sound. The rush of the ocean moving had been a noise that he would never have longed for particularly, but he wished for it with everything he had. Seagulls had been cawing outside, too, and he hadn't even noticed, but he missed their annoying cries. In the cave, all he had was the slight echo of dripped water, and stones shifting beneath the lake in front of him.

Desperately, Regulus thought back to his research of the location where he currently stood. It was a cave near the orphanage where the Dark Lord grew up. The horcrux was located in an island in the center of a lake filled with inferi-

Inferi. That's what was making the noise under the water. Panic filled him suddenly, rushing through his thin, frail body, increasing his heartbeat and making him dizzy, and so he hissed, "Lumos," and watched with relief as his wand tip lit up. His eyes scanned the water, but saw nothing but slight waves. The water was murky and full of dirt. It was as thick as the blood that ran through the veins as every being he'd ever encountered. It was just as dirty, just as impure. It was just as wrong.

He tore his gaze from the suspicious water and ran it along the thin strip of space next to him where he could walk. It ended in an area not far from where he stood, and suddenly Regulus saw the only way across. Hooked into the ground under the water, he could make out a chain. He closed his eyes and fought against the hatred and panic he held towards his situation and the lord who put him here.

Ripping over his eyes, he stalked over to the chain, and, before he lost his nerve, held his hand out over the water. It took a minute, but he urged his magic down beneath the muddy depths and felt more than saw the light tendril of magic wrap round the chain and yank it from the underwater wall. It rose slowly, but with a sudden loss of the water weighing it down, the chain fell into Regulus' hand, smearing it with grime and rust and water of questionable origins and containment.

Curling his lips with disgust, he put his wand into his pocket, keeping the wand tip out in the air, and began to tug heavily on the chain. The sight, feel, and smell of it assaulted his senses and made him want to hurl, but he restrained himself, continuing to pull it onto the shore. It got heavier, slowly, and he eventually looked away from it to watch the water as it moved more urgently. He began to whisper prayers to anyone who would listen that it wasn't the inferi that were beginning to rise with his disturbance of the chain.

It wasn't, to his great relief. It was a small boat, able to carry only one person. It was as grimy and disgusting as the chain, but he stepped into it anyway, waiting impatiently for the entire ordeal to be over. He began to care less and less about the fact that ending the task would mean ending his life. Of its own accord, the boat began to move, silent as death across the lake. Regulus sat; tense and anxious, watching as it took its sweet time in making its way over to the still not visible island he knew was there, somewhere.

It seemed to an age. It made Regulus actually eager to die, just because the anxiety and fear made the journey completely unbearable, coupled with his already formed hatred of waiting. He watched idly as the walls stood dangerously on either side of him, barring his exit, not that there would be one anyway. The only thing that marked his movement were the stalactites and stalagmites that varied in size and placement.

He turned his sight forward, and watched as the island finally came into view. It was significantly less impressive than his research had indicated it would be. The researched had painted the picture of a large stretch of land that was full of dangerous spells and traps. The actual island was a piece of stone that he thought was a selection of pricey rocks, of which he could see the entirety. In the center, there stood a pillar with a beautifully made bowl.

The boat stopped next to the island, and it was with great relief that Regulus stepped out of it. He wiped down his robes, disgust filling his entire being, momentarily replacing the all-too familiar feeling of self-loathing and fear. There was a sharp, sudden sucking sound behind him, and he whipped around, his robes whirling, to watch with horror as the boat disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Heart beating erratically, he took shaky steps forward to lean on the basin. He stared into it, too terrified to be shocked at the clarity of the liquid that protected the locket. He was breathing heavily, but silently, feeling almost numb after a few minutes. After having witness countless brutal murders at the hands of his former comrades the Death Eaters, he thought that he couldn't be scared of much anymore. He was wrong. So dreadfully, horrifically wrong. The inferi had been one thing. But he had had the time to come to terms with that detail weeks ago. He knew that they where there, just under the water, and he accepted that fact. But he also had thought, almost subconsciously, that if there was any chance for his survival, it would include a way out of the cavern. Maybe this place knew that he wasn't the Dark Lord and took appropriate measures to ensure that he never left. The thought was nearly as terrifying as the sight and sound of his only escape route disappearing into the treacherous waters.

He closed his eyes and took deep, shuddering breaths, forcing himself to calm down. And when he did, he began to curse everything he knew. Was his life not filled with enough pain and misery and terror? Was fate so cruel as to give him not only one of the worst deaths he could imagine, but also make sure that he was scared out of his bloody mind as he fell into the endless oblivion? Had he not suffered enough already?

Apparently not.

He stared at his reflection, hating everything he saw. He looked so much like his brother, the one Regulus missed so much, the one who had everything, including friends and a lover who cared and loved him, and the reassurance that no matter what happened, at least it wouldn't end with him on the wrong side of prison bars. Not that Regulus would ever see them, either. He wouldn't have the chance.

He blinked down at the locket; the one identical to the one in his pocket, suddenly heavier than it had been all night. It had the same oval shape, the same golden shine, the same emerald S bejeweled on the front of it. It was beautiful. It was disgusting.

He reached for it, but yanked his hand back when heat began to rise from the water in the basin. He narrowed his eyes and looked around, finally spotting a crystal drinking glass. And all at once it became all too clear what he had to do to reach his goal. His lip curled again, and he snatched the glass from its place on the basin. He dipped it into the liquid, unsurprised when there was no heat threatening to burn him when he got close. Indeed, the glass slipped effortlessly into the liquid, filling the crystal glass to the rim. He closed his eyes and drank it.

The liquid was cool and sweet, nearly tasteless except for the initial taste of it. He drank three, four more gulps of it before it really hit him. And he found, to fuel his self-hatred further, that he had once again underestimated the Dark Lord. Of course, it was poison. He should have known, or at least suspected it. But he hadn't. He thought, for a deadly, fleeting moment, that it was only water or some type of clear alcohol that protected the horcrux. He should have known. He should have known.

He only had a little bit of the liquid left in the basin. Only a small amount. But he dropped the cup, and it slid into the basin, resting atop the locket, under the poison. He began to breathe heavily for the third time that night, filled with fear and horror at the images that his mind began to conjure.

Sirius, when he was nine and Regulus was seven, had once been in a terrible fight with their cousin Bella. She locked him in a closet for four hours, and he, in turn, stole her wand and cursed her hair to stand on its end for three weeks. She tore his nails from his toes, and he broke her left arm in seven places. And it gradually got worse. They fought like they had never fought before and would never fight again, and the grudge they held against each other had reached its peak in those three months. They never forgave each other for what was done or what was said in that period of time, breaking apart their childhood bond of something akin to siblinghood. And Regulus had hated it, every second of it. They both broke something wild and horrible in that fight, and neither of them were the same. After that, Sirius had begun to reject everything he was, and Bella conformed and fell into it with a vengeance. It was the beginning of the end.

Sirius had been terrified of the dark. As such, it was their parents' favorite punishment to stick him into the cellar for days or weeks at a time. And Sirius would scream. He would scream and cry and plead for help and forgiveness that he was never granted, nor that he never really wanted anyway. But Regulus would sit outside the door every night after their parents went up to bed and would leave before they got up. Sirius never knew.

Regulus had been the reason that Sirius was disowned. Rather, that is to say, that he had always blamed himself. But it had gotten really bad. Regulus knew that he had to get Sirius out somehow. So he tipped Sirius over the edge and played right into their parents' hand for the first week of the summer of Sirius' sixth year, his fourth. Sirius snapped, spilling some his own secrets that he knew would earn him a spot in the disgraced Black section of the family, and their father disowned him on the spot, followed by the shout of "Crucio!" in Sirius' direction. It had pained Regulus to watch the torture of his brother, but he had really been frightened into compliance by the dark look he received while Sirius screamed. It was a look that said that this was what was waiting if he misbehaved.

Regulus first witnessed a murder when he had been sixteen. Bella had been particularly volatile recently, a fact that people attributed to her recent engagement. One night someone went too far. Regulus couldn't remember what had been said, but he knew that in the next moment, a flash of blinding green at filled the room, and Bella stood, eyes wide and crazed, the ending syllable of the killing curse on her lips as she stared at the fallen Death Eater. She looked delighted and insane.

Regulus yanked himself out of his past. He did so with difficulty, but he managed. Quickly, he grabbed the cup and drank it three more times, before trading out the lockets even as he felt the poison take hold in his mind and his hand began to shake. He screamed, and a faint crack echoed after his yell. Cold, small hands and a familiar voice reached him, but he shied away, thinking of the inferi, even as the hands took the locket from his quaking hands. He opened his eyes.

Kreacher stood there, eyes wide and fearful, the real locket in his small hands. Not knowing if the house elf was a hallucination or not, Regulus urgently relayed orders that were jumbled and half-formed, but Kreacher seemed to understand. "Take the locket, Kreacher, take it home. Make sure Mother doesn't ever, ever see it, never ever, understand? Father can't see it either. Take the locket home and destroy it. Use any means necessary. I don't care what you do, just destroy that thing, okay? Destroy it! There can be nothing left of it! Nothing! Go!"

The not-quite hallucination was nodding frantically, clearly recognizing Regulus' desperation. "Kreacher will destroy the locket, Master, but what of Master Regulus…?"

The elf trailed off, or maybe he kept speaking, Regulus wasn't sure. Regulus saw countless more murders flash through his mind, the cavern coming into focus every few seconds, or maybe they were minutes or hours, he had no idea, but in all of them Kreacher still stood there, looking frightened and determined. Enraged, Regulus waved his arms frantically even as he struggled to get air into his lugs. "Go!" he screamed, and he screamed it again and again until he didn't see the elf anymore. Then he stumbled away from the basin, watching with disgust as the poison refilled itself over the false horcrux. He tripped, and fell, scraping his hands and knees.

Still, he scrambled to the edge of the island, and, forgetting of the dangers that lurked beneath, began to reach for the water. He dipped his hands into it and drank at it desperately, but when he reached for a second time, a cold, dead hand closed around his wrist. He screamed again, feeling his throat tear from the force of it. Numerous more hands reached for him, and tugged him under the water.

It was dark. It was first though that Regulus had. Somehow, his wand had fallen and he no longer had it, so he could nothing about that little problem. But his mind was frighteningly clear, and he wished it wasn't. There were hands on his hands and wrists, on his feet and ankles, tugging him downwards, away from the island that had seemed to radiate light when he was there. He watched it disappear from his sight.

He had been holding his breath too long, and without thinking, he took a breath. He began to choke on water, the bubbles of air floating away from him, and he began to struggle, feeling the hands tighten around him. Panic filled him once more, and he thrashed against his bonds, more than ready to cry from the unfairness of it all.

Some part of him, the part that still idolized his older brother and loved him and who had broken so long ago from the darkness that had taken over, cried out for the first time in years, and Regulus felt like he was five again and running into Sirius' waiting arms after a nightmare or a beating. He chocked as he sobbed, feeling the water fill his lungs and the spots of darkness take over his vision. It somehow got even darker when he stopped seeing nothing and began seeing black. It was different. It was painful. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, _couldn't fucking breathe_! And it was the scariest thing he had ever imagined. He continued his endless journey down, his struggles getting weaker and weaker, his thoughts slowing down.

He kept trying to breathe against his better judgment, and eventually, couldn't even do that. His eyes slipped closed. He stopped feeling the hands on his body, dragging him under. He stopped thinking.

* * *

_I am so proud of this thing. Should I be, or was this complete crap? Let me know, in the review box below. _


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